“…please blame it on the Son of the Morning”
– Jay-Z
Lincoln wanted to make music and that is all he did as a teenager. He did well academically, but he looked forward to band and choir that he would take all four years of high school. He had never thought of himself as a singer, but he could harmonize with other singers and create a pleasant sound, and that was enough for him to be a welcomed contribution to the choir. He learned to play four instruments during his four years of high school, and he spent all of his free time, and time after school when his father was leading clubs and his brother was in football, basketball, or baseball practice, in the band room with his instructor, Mrs. Wells, who gave him lessons in horn instruments, the piano and guitar.
One Saturday afternoon Lincoln was in the park in East Ladoga with his friends Brandon and Snot. Brandon had his guitar, Snot his keyboard that he plugged into one of the outlets of the covered gazebo where the three gathered, and Lincoln had a trumpet that Mrs. Wells let him borrow even though he played the trombone for the band. Snot’s parents could usually tolerate the noise of the boys’ practice, but on that day most of Snot’s family was home and more interested in watching TV than appreciating the band’s artistry.
“Play that thing you did last time to start, then Snot will follow you,” Brandon directed and Lincoln put the trumpet to his lips.
It was a quick, staccato intro and Lincoln made the trumpet thrill and ripple like the voice of a seasoned R&B singer, and when it was done, Snot tickled the keys of his keyboard and made the notes twinkle and skip. Brandon joined him with his guitar as the baseline and then Lincoln was rapping. He had three verses that he did to that tune and in between each, he played his trumpet along with Brandon and Snot.
It was a relatively new song that the three hoped to add to the number of songs that would comprise their first mixtape. Even though they were still working on it, a small crowd had gathered to listen, and they exploded in applause when the song was done. Lincoln soaked it up and he could hear the older people whispering the name Afonso, the possible great grandfather that his father denied.
“Man, we ain’t here for that,” Brandon said. He looked very mature in his late teenage years and he had a deep voice that made almost everything he said sound threatening. “Pay attention. I ain’t paying what it cost for studio time if you too busy getting distracted by all that clapping. It’s nice and all, but we ain’t as tight as we can be.”
“Aww, let that man enjoy the love he getting,” Snot said.
Lincoln looked at Brandon and the two glared at one another. They were both angry and barely hiding it. They had a lot of respect for one another, they each recognized the other’s talent and playing together made them both much better, but they didn’t really like one another. They stayed close to size up their competition and occasionally, their disagreements boiled over into aggressive exchanges of words that threatened to become physical altercations.
“He right,” Lincoln said to Snot but never taking his eyes from Brandon. “It ain’t cheap getting that studio time and it’s coming up soon. So let’s get to it.”
Brandon started the next song on his guitar and Snot joined in. Lincoln waited for his cue and he rapped the chorus.
The three practiced in the park until the sun went down, and before they left, they played an impromptu concert for the crowd that was bigger than it had been earlier in the day. Some people sat out on blankets and when they finished their set, they got almost two hundred dollars in tips that they split between themselves.
“When you got your head right,” Brandon said, “you a superstar Lincoln. If we do this right, it’s straight to the top.”
“Yeah,” Lincoln said with a smirk, “if we do it right.” He shook his head as he waved goodbye to Snot and headed home.
As Lincoln walked from the park to his house, it seemed that the sun was retreating from him as it dipped below the skyline. The sky was a devilish red that tapered to the violet night it left behind. When he made it to the sidewalk next to his house, at the intersection where F— and M— streets intersected, Lincoln noticed a man standing in the middle of the intersection in the street. A car stopped at the light as Lincoln approached the intersection and he wondered for a second if they were waiting for the man to move, but the traffic light changed and the car passed right in front of the man as though he wasn’t actually there. The street lights shined down on the man. He was slightly shorter than Lincoln, who wasn’t quite six feet tall, and Lincoln saw a cigarette on his lips; occasionally puffs of smoke drifted up into the night.
“That’s you Afonso?” the man called, and Lincoln stopped on the sidewalk. “How long it’s been since you was in town?”
When Lincoln didn’t respond, the man wandered over to the sidewalk and stood before him. He wore a brimmed hat that was askew on his head, and he was dressed in a washed out coat and slacks that had been black at some point in their existence, but seemed to be faded with time. The man had removed the cigarette from his mouth and it looked more like a joint, hand rolled in white paper and presumably with weed inside. He occasionally took puffs and flicked the ashes from the end.
“I ain’t Afonso,” Lincoln said, “but people say I look like him when he was alive. That man long dead.”
“Ohh,” the man said and shook his head slowly, “pity him. Best thing for men like us is to never die, but I guess that’s impossible. What your name then? Looking like Afonso’s clone out here. They call me Johnson, Bobby if they know me like Afonso did.”
“Lincoln…” he said.
“That’s a strong name, young man, just like Afonso. You man enough to live up to a name like that?”
The man seemed to be old, like a person from another time, as distant and old as his clothes seemed to be, but Lincoln wouldn’t have believed that the man was older than thirty years old.
“Course you is,” Bobby answered for Lincoln. “You gotta be related to Afonso and if you even half the man he was, you gone be more than alright. You gone be a star.”
“Afonso was a star?’ Lincoln asked.
Bobby sucked his teeth, “Man, that Afonso was something else. A star if there ever was one. What black people you know work for the circus nowadays? Hardly any. Afonso did in the fifties.”
“What he do? He sing or something?” Lincoln asked, curious why everyone was so quick to compare him to a man who joined the circus.
“I never heard him sing, I just heard him talk. That was enough. He was the kind that you just liked that he was there. You felt lucky to be with him, whatever he was doing. It was something about him. And you got that thing. When I look at you I see him.”
The way that Bobby Johnson stared at Lincoln made him uncomfortable and he took a step back from him.
“I gotta get home,” Lincoln said, but he didn’t move. He didn’t want Bobby to see him go inside of his house, then he’d know where he lived.
“I get it, it’s uncomfortable having fans poking into your private life, standing outside your house. I’ll leave you alone, little man.” Bobby turned and walked back toward the intersection. “I was just gone offer you the thing I know Afonso was always looking for back then. The thing he needed to realize his potential. He tried his whole life to find it…”
“Turn around if you still talking,” Lincoln said with annoyance. He had been listening to Bobby and even followed him when his voice was hard to hear.
Bobby turned, and Lincoln instantly regretted stopping him. Bobby had a smug smirk on his face, a self indulgent satisfaction that told Lincoln he had walked right into the trap he had laid for him.
“Afonso could’ve been more than just a circus performer. He could’ve been a movie star. But he was born at the wrong time and couldn’t get in the room with the right people. He had bad luck. But even with his bad luck, he was still a legend of this here town.”
“That ain’t what my daddy say,” Lincoln said defiantly. “He said Afonso wasn’t nothing but a bum. Pretty boy bum that scammed people to eat.”
“Afonso wasn’t that,” Bobby said and he looked genuinely offended. “He wasn’t that. I knew him. I talked to him before he died. He died right here in Ladoga, in my mama house. She took care of him, she loved him, she couldn’t help herself. And I helped her, and you know what he gave us in return? His stories. He told us all about his life. The places he been, the things he seen. That’s why I was in the army, to see everything he had seen. But seeing the world that way, on the army’s dime come with downsides. We ain’t gotta talk about that. But before he died, I used to listen to him. I didn’t need no tv, no books. He was the greatest man I ever knew.”
Lincoln nodded.
“So what was he looking for?” he asked. “What was gone help him realize his potential?”
“He always said that the only way to get ahead was to make a deal with the devil. For him that was white folks. He said he did some stuff back in the day that he wasn’t proud of, but the worse stuff he did, the better things usually turned out for him. He didn’t like it, Afonso was raised to believe in the light, he was the light, but to get outta the Bottoms, he did what he had to do. The good Lord in heaven know how to forgive, and Afonso knew what he needed to do to get back in the good graces of the Lord.”
“So, was he getting help from the devil or God?” Lincoln asked. “Maybe that’s why he never realized his potential, he shouldn’t have been playing both sides like that.”
Bobby nodded slowly.
“You a smart boy,” he said. “What Afonso was always looking for was proof of which side would do him the most good in the end. He said when he was working for the circus, he gave his soul to the devil, and everything was good for about a decade. Then they stole from him and he knew the Lord wanted him to punish that wicked place. When he left, he couldn’t decide what was the best way. He went back and forth all the time until the day he died. Lincoln, he realized it too late what he needed, but he figured it out. He found the right way.”
Lincoln’s eyebrows moved up on his forehead and he seemed impatient for the answer. But before Bobby could tell him, he heard his father cursing.
“Bobby, get yo crackhead ass away from my son!” Richard moved quickly across the yard at the side of the house and he stood next to Lincoln with a hand on his shoulder.
“Richard don’t be like that, man,” Bobby said sadly as he backed away toward the street. “We brothers, I been telling you that your whole life. I been looking out for you like your granddaddy told me to…”
“You need to let that old bum go,” Richard said firmly but Lincoln could hear the sympathy in his voice. “I told you not to bring that nonsense around my family, and you been doing good for so long. Get outta here, man, and don’t come back or I’m calling the police. You ain’t my brother.”
“I ain’t look out for you all your life?” Bobby asked. “Remember when you was in elementary school, ain’t have nothing, I looked out for you.”
“Please, Bobby. This ain’t the time for that. Go on. If I see you somewhere else around town away from my house, maybe we can talk then. But you ain’t welcome at my house or around my family.”
Bobby nodded slowly.
“I’m sorry, Richard. It’s just been a long time, and you know he died today, all them years ago. I guess I had him on my mind. I didn’t know where you lived exactly, I just knew you was in the area, thought I might run into you. Your son look just like him. I’m gone get out your hair, little brother. You won’t see me again. And Lincoln, it wasn’t the light that he was missing.”
As Bobby walked away, Richard led Lincoln to the house.
“I’m sorry about that,” Richard said. “That man ain’t been right for along time. Don’t believe a word he said.”
PRL Serials 